Forced To Kill The Prince

by Hollie Hutchins

  “You said you were going abroad. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me you had returned. You neglect me, Richard. Which won’t do if you intend to marry me.”

  “You little liar. Where are we going, anyway? Is it one of your intellectual soirées?”

  “It’s a lecture by a chap called Sigurd Dreki, at the new museum, on the role of the dragon in Norse mythology. In particular Fafnir, the guardian of the treasure of the Nibelungs, as portrayed in the Volsung Saga.”

  He watched her a while with an inscrutable smile.

  “What an absurd name. Where is he from?”

  “Norway, I should imagine. He happens to be very interested in the work I have published.”

  “Does he, by Jove? It is very unbecoming in a lady, you know, to be quite so erudite, Emma. When we marry you shall have to mend your ways.”

  She tried to wither him with her eyebrow, but he was apparently unwitherable. The coach came to a halt. They had arrived at the Victoria and Albert.

  An attendant led them to the lecture theatre and told them that the two back rows had been reserved for her at the insistence of Professor Dreki.

  “Is there anything I can get you, M’Lady? M’Lord? Professor Dreki was most insistent you be looked after.”

  Richard spoke before Emma could respond. “Thank you, Burgess. We’ll holler if we need you.”

  The man left and Emma looked at Richard in surprise. “You know that man?”

  He looked at her mildly and said, “I have been known to attend a museum from time to time, Emma, darling. You know nothing about me, do you? Will you excuse me? I shall return presently.”

  He had not returned by the time the lights went down. There was a spatter of coughing and rustling as people settled before the talk began. Then there was a hush, and after a moment a man walked onto the stage and Emma was instantly electrified.

  He was tall, athletic and powerfully built. His hair was a rich golden blond, unfashionably long, and hung in dense curls down his back. He was clean shaven, but his jaw was strong and angular. His eyes were deep set, direct and penetrating in their gaze.

  He stood at the lectern, looked up at her and gave a small bow. She felt her face flush, her heart thumped and her belly burned.

  He spoke, and his voice was exceptionally deep and resonant, and filled every corner of the theatre.

  “I am going to speak to you,” he said, “about the people of the mists, the Nibelung, and the keeper of their treasure, the Dragon Fafnir…”

  What happened after that was nebulous. It was as though she saw, rather than heard, the things he spoke about. His voice was there, like a presence, and seemed to guide her, personally, taking her by the hand to show her the wonders of the Nibelung treasures and the heroic deeds of the Norse heroes and gods of old. She flew on a winged horse over high, sparkling white mountains, and crashed through the spray of rolling waves at the prow of a raiding ship. She galloped through spring meadows and woodlands among the melting ice of the dark winter, battled trolls among the dense shadows of the pinewoods and was carried by the Valkyrie to the gates of Valhalla…

  Two

  There was a cough and she blinked. Richard was leaning over her, smiling, and beneath her the stage was empty and the last stragglers were leaving the lecture hall.

  “Where were you?” he said, “Away with the fairies?”

  It took her a moment to orientate herself. “Yes, I believe I was.”

  “Your friend sent a note via Burgess. Will we honour him with our presence in his private exhibition room?”

  For some reason, she was unable to answer but followed Richard out and down some stairs to a room where a dozen men stood about among ancient exhibnits, sipping champagne. Richard leaned close to her and said, “I fancy your publisher is here.” He took her elbow and guided her towards a middle-aged man with a magnificent white moustache and a monocle. He beamed as he saw them approach.

  “Lady Emma! Lord Pastern! What an absolute treat to see you both.”

  She smiled graciously as he took her hand. “Mr Stodder, I had no idea you’d be here. My own invitation was very last minute.”

  Richard smiled, “Hallo Stodder. Fascinating talk. Will you take care of Emma for me? I just have to see a chap…”

  He left and Stodder spoke to her for a minute or so about her next book. She attempted to be polite but gave perfunctory answers, scanning the room looking for Sigurd Dreki, wondering if he would appear or if, after all, her invitation had simply been to attract other people, such as her publisher, to her talk. She felt a flutter of irritation at the thought and was about to summon Richard to take her home when the door opened and Sigurd entered.

  She was riveted to the spot. The only word for him was magnificent. She was electrified. Her pulse quickened and her breath came short. People approached him as iron fillings approach a magnet, or perhaps more accurately, she thought, as insects approach a flame.

  He moved through them, courteously nodding and answering their inquiries briefly, but his direction and his intention were both clear and implacable. He was headed for her. She turned away to Mr Stodder, but Mr Stodder was staring at the giant Viking who was bearing down on them.

  Suddenly his voice was there, a presence in its own right. It said, with only a trace of a smile, “Of course, I only invited you, Stodder, so that you could formally introduce me to My Lady Emma. I know that to her, the formalities are of supreme importance.”

  Stodder turned puce behind his moustache. “Oh, naturally! Quite so! Spot on! Lady Emma, may I um present Professor Sigurd, as you know, Dreki. Professor Dreki, um… Lady Emma Daneby of Chidester.”

  He took her hand and bowed over it, but his eyes were locked on hers. She saw that they were an extraordinarily dark blue.

  “My lady,” he said, “It is a true honour to meet you. I am a great admirer of your work. Your research is second to none, and your intuitive grasp of Norse myth is simply magical.”

  What she wanted to do was to greet him with the chilly aloofness which she reserved for most people in general and pretentious foreigners in particular. What she did was to blush prettily and smile, and say, “That is far too kind of you professor.”

  “Oh yes, Emma,” she thought savagely to herself, “that will teach the smarmy upstart a lesson, won’t it!” and delivered a firm, mental boot to her own posterior.

  She tried to avert her gaze, but his eyes seemed somehow to hold hers. She felt her cheeks burn. He was completely indifferent to the looks and murmurs from his guests. He was, she told herself, shameless – quite shameless! And instead of enraging her, that fact set a fire burning in her belly. Her breath caught in her throat and, as though he could hear her thoughts, he smiled. It was not a nice smile, but she found she loved it.

  He spoke.

  “There is a symbolism, My Lady, to the dragon who guards the cave. Do you not think so? The treasure represents the magic gift that lies within us, which somehow we all fear.”

  “What gift?” she asked.

  He looked mildly surprised. “Why, the gift of love! The most powerful magic in the universe. That which can transform the lowliest and the most base, into the most beautiful and the most valuable – love.”

  She clutched at her small purse to stop her hands from trembling. “And why,” she asked, “should we fear such a thing?”

  He became grave and serious. “Because, like Fafnir’s treasure, it transforms us. And humans all fear change, do they not? Most people, I believe, would rather hang on to what is familiar, even when it impoverishes their lives, sooner than experience the magic of change. For this reason, the jealous dragon guards the treasure. And only the courage and the noble heart of the hero…”

  She whispered, “Sigurd…”

  He smiled. “…can slay the dragon and gain entrance to that treasure…”

  She faltered. Her mind was in a whirl. She assayed several answers but found herself merely moving her lips and blushing. Finally she said, “A lit
tle fanciful, perhaps.”

  He grinned, and for a moment he looked predatory and dangerous. “We Vikings, Emma - I may call you Emma, may I not? We Vikings have many fancies. And anything we fancy, we take.” He leaned close to her, so that she could feel his hot breath on her ear and her exposed neck. “I shall confess a secret to you, Emma. You are my fancy, and I intend to take you.”

  Her cheeks flamed. Adrenalin rushed in her belly. She could feel her heart pounding on her ribs. Her throat was constricted and her jaw clenched. Outraged pleasure flooded every inch of her body. He stood back and had the effrontery to look complacent. She stared at him and was furious at herself for wanting to smile – a smile which, though she hid it, he saw and relished.

  He said, “My Lady, you are everything I had hoped you to be. I know we shall meet again. We have…” again the predatory, dangerous smile, “…many treasures to share.”

  And without so much as taking his leave, he gave a small bow and walked from the room.

  A number of his guests watched him leave in mild astonishment. There were some disgruntled grumbles and some sidelong glances of resentment towards Emma. He had spoken to no one but her. Most of those present were renowned academics. She was nothing more than a popular dilettante.

  She stood, breathless, alone and quivering. She glanced about the room with glistening eyes. Where the devil was Richard? He was as good as useless!

  “Hasn’t he shown up yet? I thought he was desperately keen to talk to you?” She whirled around and looked at him. He saw her face and his eyebrows went up. “Hullo!” he said, “What’s happened to you? You look as though someone’s been eating your porridge!”

  “Don’t be facetious, Richard! Where have you been? The man was insufferable! Why weren’t you there to protect me?”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “My dear Emma, I was of the impression you neither needed nor wanted protecting.”

  She stared at him. “Am I,” she asked, and her voice was as taut as a bowstring, “to suffer nothing but facetious insolence all evening long?”

  “Emma, you are truly upset!”

  “I have told you so!”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “Why were you not here?”

  “I truly thought you would want to be alone with the chap, to talk about your Norse stuff.”

  “You were wrong!”

  “I am so sorry, again…”

  “Kindly take me home.”

  “My I take you for supper?”

  “No. I want to go home.”

  Three

  Emma lay in her bed unable to sleep. Through her window she could see the tops of the chestnuts and the elms in Pardoner’s Square. They were dark, but touched at the edges by moonlight. The moon was large that night, a great, silver orb riding over the trees against a deep, translucent sky. Its light was too bright for the stars. They had withdrawn into the deeper folds of the night.

  Emma did not cry. Ever. Even when her father had died, leaving her alone in the world, she had not cried. But if ever she had come close, she came close that night, lying in her bed looking at the silver moon over the trees.

  What had he done to her? What did she, in fact, feel? Was she distraught, offended, outraged, insulted and disgusted by his boorish, outlandish and generally grotesque behaviour? Or was she, thrilled, elated, excited and indeed joyful at the passions that he had stirred in her? Was she, after all, feeling exactly what he had described when he spoke about the treasure?

  Could it be? Could she, Lady Emma Danby of Chidester, daughter of Lord Chidester, possibly feel this for a man like that?

  She turned for the thousandth time that night onto her back, attempting to find a comfortable position, and stared at the ceiling. He was, indisputably handsome. Very handsome indeed. He was undeniably attractive. Almost excessively so. But that was not enough; not by a very long chalk.

  She turned again, with her back to the moon. Then again, with a small exclamation of frustration, to face the window. The moon had crept an inch and was now beaming into her room. A ray caught the edge of an object beside the window. Was it a chair? There was no chair in that place. What then? What was there in that corner? Nothing.

  She stared and it moved. Or was it a trick of the moonlight? It seemed to shift. She seemed to hear Sigurd’s deep voice whisper in her ear: “Belief is the catalyst for magic.”

  She felt her belly knot. A pellet of hot fear burned and her skin turned cold. There was something there. She could hear it breathing. It shifted a little further and now the moonlight illuminated something metallic. It was both metallic and organic and it made her skin crawl with an intoxicating mix of fascination and dread as she realized it was a leg.

  Then there was something moving at the foot of her bed, something heavy and thick, writing, sliding, slipping up onto her eiderdown. Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to crawl away, but she was paralyzed. There was a heavy, rasping sigh on the dark air, and the thick, writing tendril, half picked out in the translucent light, twisted and curled and slipped under her bedcovers.

  She sobbed.

  The thing by the window moved forward, its breath now somewhere between a grunt and a growl. Something burned in the dark, a deep, smoky red. She realized with a small scream that it was an eye. Dread turned to near hysterical terror as she understood, suddenly, that the thing was not just in the corner by the window. The thing took up the entire length of her bedroom, and the whole thing was moving, slithering, sliding towards her.

  And then the head moved out of the shadows and loomed over her. The head alone was more than half the size of her body, on the end of a massive, corded, muscular neck, covered in glistening, metallic scales. Its eyes were alive with fire. Its forked tongue flicked at her. Its enormous body encompassed her. Its wings unfurled and enclosed her. And beneath her bedclothes she felt its tail snaking between her legs.

  She stared at the massive chest of the beast. Each scale was like a jewel. Even in her terror she was overwhelmed by the beauty of its skin. She reached up with a trembling hand and placed her palm on the huge, rippling muscles. They did not feel like metal. It was as though life had been breathed into the scales themselves. They trembled at her touch. She looked up at the face that was looking down at her. Within the smouldering, ophidian eyes, she saw a turmoil of passions: hunger, lust, greed, but also tenderness, compassion, love.

  The long, forked tongue flicked at her, gently touched her throat, her cheek and her ear. She was repulsed, and yet within the revulsion there was an insane excitement. She tried to fight it, but her hunger was overpowering and her own weakness was intoxicating. She surrendered and spread her legs, longing for the sensation she knew would come, inviting the beast in.

  And he entered, smooth, thick, powerful and slow. She cried out and arched to him. She felt his hot breath on her ear, heard him whisper, “I want you. I own you. I will take you.”

  She whimpered with pleasure and in her mind whispered, “Yes, oh god yes…”

  She felt the power of one, great talon take hold of her waist, while the other gripped her hip and her buttock. He pulled her to him, penetrating deep inside her, swelling as he did so. With his teeth he tore her nightgown from her body, exposing her tender, pale flesh. She clawed at his chest. An intolerable sensitivity thrummed in her pink nipples. She arched her chest up to him, pulling his head down towards her breasts. A fevered madness possessed her mind.

  In her fingers she did not feel the hard scales of the serpent’s head. She felt thick, rich curls of hair. Against her own skin she felt hard, rippling muscles, skin, perspiring and human, slipping, sliding, writhing against her own. Between her open legs she felt the powerful hips, not of a dragon, but of a man. She felt his lips part and take her nipple in his mouth. She felt the warm moisture of his tongue. Then she felt his warm mouth engulf her breast and heard him groan.

  She pulled his face up to her own and their mouths joined. He bit her tender, pink lips and she felt a growing te
nsion between her legs, building inside her, in her skin. They stared into each other’s eyes, their lips touching. His rhythm became urgent. He pushed deep, and with every thrust pushed deeper. She bit back a scream, holding her breath, allowing the tension to build. She gripped his back, clawing at his skin. His eyes were inflamed. His neck swelled. His rhythm became a frenzy. She felt the spasm clench, tightening around him. He drove through her spasm. She felt the friction as she gripped him, holding him inside as he rubbed hard against her. Her sensitivity was unendurable, and suddenly it was unleashed. Wave after wave of pleasure wracked her body. She screamed, gritting her teeth, pushing her hips into his, grinding against him, biting into his powerful shoulder, pulsing, trying to draw him deeper insider herself. And he kissed her long and deep and he pulsed inside her.

  She lay trembling. There was silence and stillness. Her breath coming in short, whimpering gasps. Her nightdress lay in shreds by her side. The bedclothes were tossed on the floor, leaving her perspiring, naked body exposed, translucent in the moonlight. There was no trace of Sigurd, no trace of any dragon.

  She covered her mouth with her hand, a hand that still smelled of Sigurd’s skin and hair, and bit back a sob. She whispered to herself, “Oh God! What is happening to me…?”

  And as she closed her eyes to blink back the tears, she slipped almost instantly into a deep, restless sleep.

  In the morning her maid dressed her and tidied her room. She knew better than to comment on the torn nightclothes and the peculiar stains on the bed linen. Emma went down to breakfast in a state of abstracted panic. She found she did not know whom she was. It was not even as though she suddenly had a stranger inside her. It was worse than that. She herself had become a stranger.

  She sat at her breakfast table, looking out at the brilliant morning in Pardoner’s Square and wondering what Sigurd had done to her. For she had absolutely no doubt in her mind that it was he who had done this. When Smythe brought in her two boiled eggs and her tea and toast, she said to him, “Send a boy to the Victoria and Albert museum. I wish to know how I can contact Professor Sigurd Dreki. He gave a talk there yesterday evening. They must have his address in London.”